Short Version: Not Dead
by Supervillegirl
Summary: Ever had that sensation upon waking that you can't move? What if you couldn't shake it off? Sherlock finds himself on the receiving end of a murderer's weapon of choice and must think fast before death claims him. Post HLV. Established Sherlolly. Rated T just to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

Short Version: Not Dead

Chapter One

 **Okay, so, here's my latest Sherlock story. I was inspired by Stephen King's "Autopsy Room Four" and another fanfiction story that I read ("Sleep Eternal" for Supernatural).**

* * *

 _Where am I?_

He couldn't make out where he was or what had happened to him. No, no, wait; he **could** remember what had happened to him. It was something to do with poison…something or other…Yes! Yes! He had been happened!

The murderer had poisoned him!

Did that mean he was dead? No, it couldn't be. He could feel his chest expanding slightly with each shallow breath he took. He could hear the rush of blood in his ears as his heart beat. So, what had that poison done to him if it hadn't killed him? What case had he been working on? It was the poison. The poison held the key.

 _Sherlock Holmes sat at his microscope in the lab at St. Bart's Hospital, peering into the eyepieces as a grin began to work its way onto his face. "Fascinating."_

" _What's that?" asked Dr. John Watson from his seat across from him, looking up from his phone._

" _The poison found in the victims," said Sherlock, leaning away from the microscope to look at his friend. "I've never seen anything like it. It holds traces of curare and the venom of a tarantula hawk wasp. The curare alone would have been enough to kill them, but each of them died of starvation and dehydration."_

" _How is that possible?" asked John. "Curare is a muscle relaxant. It paralyzes the diaphragm and causes asphyxiation."_

 _Sherlock frowned in thought. "Somehow, they managed to combine the symptoms of the wasp venom with the onset and effect of the curare. The result is the ultimate paralytic: a poison that paralyzes the body without paralyzing the respiratory and circulatory systems. It would take a trained professional to determine the person isn't actually dead." He leaned back towards the microscope, looking into it with an amazed smile on his face. "Brilliant."_

" _Sherlock."_

 _Sherlock's eyes lifted from the eyepieces, his head staying put._

" _Three people are dead," John told him. "They probably died terrible, horrific deaths."_

 _Sherlock rolled his eyes. "How many times do I have to tell you, John? Sympathizing with the victim does nothing to catch their killer before he strikes again."_

" _Sherlock, think about it," John said in a serious tone. "Lying there, unable to move or call out for help as you slowly starve to death. What they must have gone through…"_

 _Sherlock stared at him for a moment before going back to his microscope. "The only thing that would have negated the paralytics would have been two milligrams of neostigmine and three milligrams of atropine…Combination therapy…"_

 _It was John's turn to roll his eyes as he went back to his phone. "So, any idea who's behind it?"_

" _I have a theory," Sherlock muttered, changing slides._

And that theory had led him here, paralyzed by what Dr. Molly Hooper had so fondly dubbed "The Living Death." For that was what this new drug did to the human body: left it so paralyzed that for all appearances, that body was dead. With any luck, the murderer had left him for dead. **That** he could deal with; or, rather, Mycroft could. Mycroft would be able to find him in an instant.

" _You can't be serious."_

As a matter of fact, it sounded like he had already been found.

" _I'm afraid I am, sir."_

" _Oh, God…"_

That sounded like Lestrade's voice. He could also hear radios squealing as people talked to each other through them. Footsteps sounded on pavement around him, and something light was laying over him.

" _I'm sorry, sir."_

Slowly, the darkness bled away from his eyes, and the world came into focus. The something laying over his face looked to be a tarp of some kind, but it was too dark to make out.

"And you're sure it's him?" asked Lestrade.

"Yes, sir," said a voice he didn't recognize.

"Let me see," said Lestrade.

"Sir—"

"Let me see," said Lestrade more forcefully.

There was a momentary pause before two footsteps sounded near his head to his right. The tarp over his face crinkled loudly before it was slowly pulled away. Light shone down onto his face, and his eyes sent a frantic message to his brain to blink. But, of course, the paralysis didn't allow any relief to the blinding light.

There was an intake of breath from above him before Lestrade spoke. "My God, Sherlock…"

Before long, his eyes had adjusted to the light, and he found himself staring up into Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade's face. The inspector was staring down at him with drawn brows. The only other person that he could see was an officer, who was holding the sheet back. He was still lying in the alley he had chased the murderer down, although he must not have been out long because it was still dark out.

"Has anyone called his brother?" asked Lestrade.

"His brother?" asked the officer.

Lestrade shook his head. "Never mind. He's probably already seen the whole thing."

The officer frowned in confusion before looking down at him. He took in everything that he could see, confused by everyone around him. Why were they not in a panic? Why were they not hurrying him to the hospital?

"All right," said Lestrade. "Someone call John. I'll—"

"We already did," said the officer. "He's on his way."

"Oh," said Lestrade. "Well, then, I'll just…" He pulled his mobile out, giving a sigh. "This is just gonna kill her." He punched a number on his phone and raised it to his ear, waiting for a moment. "Hey, it's Greg. Erm…" He turned and began to walk away. "Listen, there's something you need to know…"

Lestrade's voice trailed off as he got out of earshot. Now, he was stuck with the other officer that he couldn't remember the name of. The officer just stared at him for a moment before pulling out a clipboard and starting to write on it.

What was wrong with this idiot? Who knew how long he had been lying there? Unable to move, there was no way for his body to keep itself warm. They should be those infernal shock blankets over him, getting him to the hospital. Why had Lestrade hired these imbeciles?

The sharp _click-clack_ of high-heeled shoes echoed through the alley, getting louder, before Sergeant Sally Donovan came into view. She gazed down at him, shaking her head in disdain. "I knew one day he'd end up back here."

What? Did she think he had done this to _himself_? Now, granted, he had been known to dose up in the past, but that was to get a high, to get his mind to just stop thinking. What purpose would **this** serve? His mind would only rally against his body's inability to move. Why did Donovan have to be so stupid?

"All right," came Lestrade's voice as he approached and shooed Donovan away. "We'll meet you at the hospital."

Finally! Finally, there was talk of a hospital.

"And Molly?" said Lestrade. "I'm sorry."

Sorry? Why would he be sorry? Lestrade didn't poison him.

Lestrade hung up, staring at his phone for a moment before looking down at him. Lestrade stared right down into his eyes for an uncomfortably long moment before his brows drew together and his eyes began to fill with tears. What was wrong with everyone today? He was going to be perfectly fine! And why in the bloody hell was he not in an ambulance?

"Sherlock!"

Ah, finally! Someone who would take this seriously.

Lestrade glanced up at John's voice and looked over to the left.

"Sherlock!" John yelled again, his voice louder as hurried footsteps drew closer.

Lestrade quickly headed to the left, supposedly to head him off. "John—"

"Sherlock—" began John.

"John, don't—" said Lestrade as the sounds of a slight scuffle started.

"Let me through—"

"John, you can't—"

"Let me go, Greg."

"It's too late, John."

" **Let me through** ," said John firmly as the scuffling ceased abruptly.

Suddenly, John was there, kneeling at his left and leaning over him with a terrified look on his face.

"Sherlock!" exclaimed John, reaching forward and shaking him by the front of his coat. "Sherlock, no…"

A hand latched onto John's right shoulder as Lestrade approached. "John, come on."

"No!" shouted John, tears forming in his eyes. "No, not again…"

If he could frown at that moment, he would be. Why was John so upset? He was going to be fine. It wasn't like he was dead.

"It's too late, John," said Lestrade.

John shook his head as he clenched his eyes closed, a couple of tears falling from them. "No…"

"He's gone," Lestrade told him softly, a tear falling down his own face.

As John fell back onto his feet, shoulders slumping in despair, it finally clicked. No wonder he hadn't gotten it before; it was so blindingly obvious to him that he hadn't thought of what it would look like to everyone else. After all, hadn't he himself said that it would take a trained professional to see the signs?

"I'm sorry, John," said Lestrade, squatting down next to the grieving John.

 _My God…_ Sherlock thought. _They think I'm dead._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

 **I know this is a tad short, but the ending for this chapter was just too perfect.**

* * *

If Sherlock could scream in frustration right now, he would. **How** do you not know a live body when you see one? True, the paralytic was inhibiting his heart beat somewhat, causing it to not pound at his pulse points like it should, but _really_? What idiot medical examiner did they have working for Scotland Yard?

Any real doctor would be able to tell that Sherlock was still alive. He still had a heart beat (albeit a faint one), he was still breathing (easily felt by placing a hand under the nose), his core body temperature had not decreased (which you could easily tell by placing a hand to his chest), and his pupils were not the fixed and dilated ones of a corpse (really, did they not teach you this?).

Luckily, Sherlock had the two best doctors in London for friends. Now, if one of them would just snap out of his shock and _**look**_.

John stood over by the wall, staring at Sherlock. The officer from before was now taking pictures of the supposed murder scene. The flashes were doing nothing to faze John; he only kept staring at him. And it was as though he wasn't staring **at** Sherlock, exactly. It was as though he was staring back through the years at another Sherlock.

" _I'm a doctor, let me come through," said John, pushing his way past the crowd around Sherlock's body in front of St. Bart's. "Let me come through, please."_

 _Some of the crowd tried to hold him back, but he pushed through them._

" _No, he's my friend. He's my friend. Please."_

 _He reached down to take hold of Sherlock's wrist, searching for a pulse. A woman peeled his fingers off as they pulled him away. As he reached towards his friend again, more medics arrived with a wheeled stretcher._

" _Please, let me just…"_

 _John slumped to the pavement as two people gently rolled Sherlock onto his back, revealing his blood-stained face and wide, staring eyes._

 _Four people lifted Sherlock's body onto the stretcher and then rapidly wheeled it away into the hospital. John stared after it, his face blank and uncomprehending._

"John," said Lestrade as he stepped over to him, "why don't you go home?"

"No," John told him as he firmly shook his head. "I'm not leaving him. Not this time."

 _John, this was_ _ **not**_ _your fault!_ Sherlock wanted to shout at him.

Lestrade nodded, leaning back against the wall next to John. "It's strange, yeah?"

John frowned and finally looked away from Sherlock. "What's strange?"

Lestrade nodded his chin once in Sherlock's direction. John glanced at Sherlock and back to the inspector.

"After Moriarty, when we thought he was dead, and then…" said Lestrade. "It just doesn't…"

"Seem real," John finished, staring at Sherlock.

 _That's because it isn't!_ Sherlock silently shouted at his friend. _Listen to that feeling! It's your instinct recognizing the signs of life! Don't let them take me away, John!_

For at that very moment, the coroner was approaching with a black body bag.

 _Great, now I'll just suffocate on the way to the morgue. John!_

"Have you told Molly?" asked John, still staring at his best friend.

"Yeah…" Lestrade sighed. "Somewhere in between the sobs, she said she would meet us at the hospital."

"Oh, God…" sighed John as Sherlock's heart clenched.

 _Oh, my God, Molly…_ Sherlock thought. _What she must be going through…_

"They finally found each other, and now…" said John, shaking his head sadly. "I've never seen him that happy before—" his voice was starting to waver, "and now, they'll never get to start a family and live—" he broke off as tears formed in his eyes. He took a harsh breath as he looked at Lestrade. "He's really gone this time, isn't he?"

Lestrade placed a hand on John's shoulder.

 _No, I'm not!_ Sherlock yelled in frustration. _Open your eyes!_

The coroner had stretched out the bag next to him and was starting to unzip it.

 _My God, they're really going to put me in that thing,_ thought Sherlock, beginning to feel the terror set in. _And then they'll take me to the morgue and give me an autopsy…while I watch!_

Just this morning, John had practically berated him for not sympathizing with the paralyzed victims. And now, he was about to get a front row seat to their horrific deaths.

 _How ironic…_ Sherlock grumbled as the coroner called someone over to help.

An officer squatted down above Sherlock's head as the coroner squatted at his feet.

 _No, not yet!_ Sherlock cried in his head. _John needs to come back and—No!_

Sherlock was suddenly lifted from the pavement and moved to the right before being set back down again. He could see John out of the corner of his eye holding a hand to his mouth as he watched. The edges of the body bag were being tugged out from under his feet and laid back over them.

 _John!_ Sherlock shouted again.

His arms were then lifted and placed inside the bag as the sound of a zipper was heard. The panic began to rise as his lower body was closed up in the body bag. For he knew that once he was in that body bag, he was gone for good.

 _For God's sake!_ Sherlock yelled. _Someone!_

The zipper stopped as they readjusted the flaps over him, giving him a moment's respite before it began moving again.

 _Please!_ Sherlock screamed, begging for the first time in his life.

John's brows furrowed before he closed his eyes and turned away.

 _You idiots!_ Sherlock shouted as the zipper closed over his face.

The darkness swept over him as he was closed in, and the dejection came with it. This was it. He had maybe fifteen minutes of air left, and the ride to St. Bart's was twenty.

 _Well, at least we'll finally get to use my empty coffin,_ he thought sarcastically.

Then, by some miracle—whether it be fate or God—the zipper got stuck. Sherlock's focus zeroed in on that tiny pinprick of light. Someone was tugging on the stubborn zipper.

"Just leave it," someone said. "Better stuck open than closed."

The zipper was then abandoned, and relief swept through Sherlock, who allowed hope to fill him. Maybe he would make it out of this after all.

"Alright, let's load him up," said the voice again. "It's off to the morgue with this guy."

Dread filled Sherlock at the word "morgue." Morgue meant autopsy…a live autopsy.

 _Out of the frying pan…and into the fire._

* * *

 **Is it just me, or do you hear Gandalf when reading that last line?**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

 **No clue how tall Sherlock (Benedict) really is, but the ACD stories say that he is "rather over six feet tall," so I guessed.**

* * *

The ride to the morgue had been silent and dull and not at all long enough. Before Sherlock knew it, they had come to a stop and were unloading him from the coroner's van. He was wheeled on the stretcher through a doorway into what must have been the hospital, if the sudden increase in light shining through the small hole in the body bag was anything to go by. He was wheeled through the hallways before the stretcher banged into the swinging double doors that led into the morgue.

In a sudden burst of clarity, Sherlock realized that he had one last hope: Molly. He didn't know how he could have forgotten that. They were bringing him into the morgue, where the pathologist on duty would perform the examination and autopsy. It would take only a moment for Molly to recognize the signs.

Sherlock felt relief sweep through him. _Now, everything will be sorted. Molly will be able to tell I'm still alive._

"You got one," said a voice close by—probably the coroner that had wheeled him in.

"Autopsy?" said a male voice from somewhere in the room.

Sherlock's eyes widened—or, they tried to—at the voice. He knew that voice; he _hated_ that voice. It was Molly's new incompetent fellow pathologist. But he wasn't supposed to be here; it was Tuesday. Molly **always** worked on Tuesdays.

And with a sense of dread, Sherlock suddenly recalled Molly telling him yesterday that she would be taking the day off for her birthday. And he should have remembered that, considering the birthday gift he had planned for her.

Now, he was stuck with this idiot. But no matter how inept he was, he was still a doctor. He would surely be able to tell he was alive.

"All right, I'll leave you to it," said the coroner. "Have fun."

 _Wait, what?_

"Very funny," said the pathologist— _what was his name again?_

His stretcher was wheeled to somewhere else in the room and eased to a stop. The zipper was then pulled quickly down on the body bag, and Sherlock had to endure another blinding eye ache that he could do nothing about.

The pathologist sighed somewhere above him. "Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock's eyes finally adjusted to find the man leaning over him and staring closely at his face. The man's eyes narrowed in what looked like contemplation.

 _That's it,_ he thought. _You can do it._

"What a pickle you've landed in, huh, mate?" said the man, shaking his head.

 _Oh, you've figured it out! Bless you, you—_

"Well, let's get started, Mr. Holmes," said the pathologist, unzipping the rest of the bag.

— _complete and utter dimwit!_

The man—

 _Eric? Edmund?_

—slid his hands under his shoulders and pulled upwards, causing Sherlock's head to flop back on his neck and giving him the perfect view of his name badge.

 _Ah, yes. Edward. What an annoyingly common name._

Edward strained as he pulled Sherlock's torso onto the examination table, setting him down none too gently and huffing out a breath. "Maybe I should have gotten him to stay and help."

 _Obviously, since you're a complete idiot!_

Edward then moved to Sherlock's feet and pulled them onto the table. Once he had Sherlock steady, he moved the stretcher over to the wall.

"Okay, now to get the personals out of the way," said Edward as he walked back over. "Can't very well do an autopsy like that."

 _Oh, perfect. Now, the imbecile gets to strip me. How wonderful._

Edward took hold of Sherlock's arm, tugging the sleeve of his Belstaff and trying to pull it off of his arm. Finally, he turned Sherlock onto his side to get the sleeve off his arm and shoulder. And what came into Sherlock's view drove his impending embarrassment right out of his mind.

Lots and lots of shiny…

 _Sharp…_

Autopsy tools.

* * *

John followed Greg into the hospital, blindly following the inspector as he led them down towards the morgue. He still didn't understand how this had happened. He had only seen Sherlock this morning; the man had been perfectly okay. He was always so clever at besting the criminals. How had one of them gotten the drop on Sherlock Holmes?

John should have gone with him. His wife Mary had called and told him that their daughter Emma had come down with a small cold. Sherlock had dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and John had gladly left him to his lab work. Now, he wished he had never left. If he had been there, none of this would have happened.

As Greg led him into the small waiting area outside the hallway to the morgue, John looked up, somehow not surprised to see Mycroft Holmes waiting there for them.

Mycroft nodded solemnly at them. "Dr. Watson…Inspector."

"Mycroft…" said John, stepping towards him a little. He awkwardly shifted his feet. "I'm, erm…sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," said Mycroft quietly.

"How are your parents handling it?" asked John.

Mycroft paused for a moment before speaking. "Not well. I think they had been hoping Sherlock would finally grace them with grandchildren before… **it** happened."

John nodded as his eyes began to well up again. He blinked back the tears as he walked over to take a seat and wait for Molly, while the other two men moved over to the corner to talk.

The double doors at the end of the room swung open, and Edward Shapely the new pathologist walked in, carrying a box in his arms. "Dr. Watson?"

John detoured from his way to the seat and stepped over to him.

"Hey, John," said Edward gravely. "So sorry for your loss."

John nodded, unable to say anything in response.

Edward held the box up a little. "These are Sherlock's personal effects. I, erm…think that he would want you and Dr. Hooper to have them."

John glanced down at the Belstaff coat folded on top in the box, tears brimming in his eyes again. He nodded again as he looked up at Edward. "Thanks." He reached forward and took the box from him.

Edward nodded awkwardly for a moment. "Well, I, er…I better get back to…"

"Right…" said John, turning and heading towards his seat as he stared absently at the box.

* * *

Sherlock lay on the examination table, waiting for whatever would happen next. Edward had left five minutes ago with the box of his clothes and accessories, leaving him lying naked on the table. Thankfully, for whatever reason, Edward had left a white sheet draped over his body in some stupid attempt at modesty. What use giving modesty to an allegedly dead person was, he had no clue. Must be one of those sentiment things he didn't understand.

In any case, his things were now being given to whatever friends and family were in the waiting room. And whoever decided to go through them would find his gift for Molly. Depending on who was out there at the moment, it would either be John or Molly.

 _Well, that's not exactly the way I wanted it to happen, but…_

Then again, if it **was** Molly that opened that gift, then maybe she would come running in to cry over his body, and he would be saved.

Edward burst back through the morgue doors, striding over towards him and snapping on a pair of gloves. "Okay, then…Shall we?"

 _No, we shan't, thank you very much._

Edward reached up to the microphone hanging down above the table, switching it on. "Victim is male, late thirties, approximately five feet eleven inches—"

 _I'm six foot four, you moron!_

"—black hair, hazel eyes—"

 _Heterochromic!_

"—and has a lean body structure." Edward then moved closer, gripping Sherlock's face in his hands. "Victim's pupils are fixed and constricted, indicating head trauma—"

 _Oh, dear Lord, you really are a complete idiot._

"—sustained shortly before death." Edward peeled the sheet back to his waist and poked one of his gloved fingers to the old wound on his abdomen. "Victim has a scar on his right upper quadrant—"

 _Epigastric quadrant._

"—most likely caused by some kind of knife."

 _It was a bullet, you incompetent—_

Edward grasped Sherlock's arms next, looking closely at them. "Victim has multiple scars on the insides of his elbows, caused by syringe injections."

 _Oh, what do you know? He finally got one right._

"Victim likely had blood work done frequently at one point," said Edward, putting Sherlock's arm down and moving on.

 _Oh, just do the autopsy already and put me out of my misery._

* * *

John pulled the coat out of the box, holding it for a moment before setting it down on the seat next to him. He then shifted the suit and shoes to the side before coming to the personal items. Sherlock's mobile phone was on the top, sitting next to his watch and a box of nicotine patches.

The last item made John laugh unexpectedly. All that time, he had been on Sherlock for his smoking; that the detective would end up with lung cancer one day if he wasn't careful. The laugh faded away as tears cropped up again.

 _If only…_ John thought miserably.

Greg sat down next to John, who looked up at him.

"To think, I was so worried he would be done in by his drug or smoking habits," said John, looking back down at the box. "I never really thought seriously about him getting—" He broke off as his throat threatened to choke him up.

"Yeah…" said Greg, staring at the box as well.

John's eyes welled up again, and he blinked back the tears, his eyes straying from the nicotine patches. As his vision came back into focus, he frowned. "What…"

Greg looked up at him. "What?"

John reached forward, pushing the mobile aside and grasping the item he had seen. He pulled it out of the box and held it up in front of them.

"Oh, my God…" said Greg, staring at it as well. "He was going to…"

John looked over at Greg before looking down at the small velvet box he held in his hand. He slowly reached his other hand up and pulled the lid open, revealing a small silver band with three diamonds on top of it.

John's breath caught in his throat as fresh grief rolled over him. "He was going to propose to Molly…"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

"Did he say anything to you about this?" asked Greg.

"No," said John. "I had no idea that he had even…" He stared down at the engagement ring he had pulled from the box of Sherlock's things. "I didn't know that things were that serious between them."

"Neither did I," said Greg. "Do you think Molly had any idea?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," John muttered, closing the ring box and stowing it in the pocket of his jacket.

He looked down at the box, shuffling through the last few odds and ends inside. As his fingers brushed a set of keys that he recognized as those to the flat at Baker Street, John's eyes widened.

"Oh, my God, Mrs. Hudson!" John exclaimed. "I completely forgot!" He jumped to his feet, turning to set the box on his seat and pulling out his phone. He went over to the corner of the waiting area to make the call.

Greg glanced down at the box next to him, spotting a black leather wallet. He reached down into the box and pulled it out, flipping it open. The first thing he spotted was Sherlock's National Identity Card. One of the folds seemed to be exploding with cards, so Greg pulled them out. They appeared to be different badges or identifications that Sherlock had swiped or forged over the years. The first one on top was an MI-6 identification card for Mycroft Holmes. The second was Greg's own warrant card for Scotland Yard. The sight of it made Greg smile.

Suddenly, the doors that led to the rest of the hospital burst open to reveal Molly, tears on her face and her eyes red.

"Molly…" said Greg, quickly standing up and moving towards her.

Molly's face crumpled as she collapsed into his arms, sobbing into his chest. "Sherlock…"

Greg held Molly tight as she cried, repeating Sherlock's name several times. "I'm sorry, Molly."

Greg glanced up to see that Mary Watson had entered the waiting room behind Molly, carrying her one-year-old daughter Emma. There were a few tears in her eyes as well. She turned as John walked up, his mobile in one hand. Mary raised her free arm and pulled John close as he wrapped his arms around his wife and daughter.

Greg wrapped his arm tighter around Molly, holding the shaking woman as she broke down.

* * *

 _What was wrong with this moron?_

So far, Edward had come to the conclusion that Sherlock Holmes was a recovering alcoholic with a history of cirrhosis and self-mutilation, and his death had been caused by a blow to the head. Where did he even begin?

First of all, alcoholism—especially previous alcoholism—cannot be determined from a basic physical examination. And how do you diagnose cirrhosis without even _looking_ at the liver? Or the blood tests? And speaking of, the scars left by drug needles look nothing like the marks made by blood work syringes. Doctors know how to draw blood without causing permanent damage. They always draw blood from around one specific spot: the brachial artery. Junkies couldn't care less if the needles hit their mark.

And self-mutilation? This supposed doctor took one look at the torture scars on his body and came up with self-mutilation? Just how the bloody hell was he supposed to have hit himself in the back with an iron pipe? Where did this idiot get his medical degree?

"Okay, Mr. Holmes," said Edward as he grabbed hold of Sherlock's shoulder. "Up you get." He huffed as he flipped Sherlock back onto his back.

And there Sherlock had his answer.

As Edward had turned him the other way, Sherlock had caught sight of Edward's medical degrees hanging on the wall.

 _My God, a fake. How could I have not seen that?_

Sherlock's back slammed onto the metal table as Edward adjusted the sheet over his lower half. He then walked away and moved around the room a bit. When he came back, he was now wearing a vinyl jacket over his white lab coat.

Sherlock's heart nearly stopped in his chest. That jacket was meant to prevent blood splatters from getting on the coat.

Edward was ready to start the autopsy.

* * *

Molly sat in the corner of the waiting room, wringing a tissue in her hands as tears fell down her face. Mary sat next to her, a hand on her back as she cradled a sleeping Emma in her other arm. John stood on the other side of the room with Greg and Mycroft. None of them were really talking, just being with each other. Even Mycroft seemed to understand the sentiment they were all sharing in that moment.

John glanced over at Molly, his hand sliding to the pocket where Sherlock's engagement ring lay. He looked back at Greg and Mycroft, both of whom nodded at him. John turned and walked over towards the girls, taking a hesitant seat next to Molly.

"Hey…Molly…" said John softly.

Molly sniffled and looked up at him briefly before dropping her gaze back to the tissue in her lap.

"I'm sorry," said John.

Molly nodded. "I know." She raised the tissue to her nose and wiped at it quickly. "Everyone is…"

John sighed, looking away and not knowing what to say. He felt the same way. No matter how many "I'm sorry's" were offered up, it did nothing to bring their friend back.

John turned a little more towards her. "Listen, erm…Edward gave me Sherlock's stuff, and…well, I think there's something in there Sherlock would want you to have."

Molly frowned and looked up at him. John reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring box, offering it to her. Molly just stared at it, her frown freezing on her face. After a moment, she slowly reached up and took the box, easing it open. As the diamond ring came into view, she gasped, a hand flying to her mouth as tears appeared in her eyes again.

Mary's mouth had dropped open also, and John glanced at her, sharing a look with her.

Molly grabbed hold of the ring, pulling it from its place in the box and holding it up in front of her. "He…he was…" Her voice failed her as the tears came faster.

John placed a hand on her shoulder as Mary wrapped an arm around her.

Molly stared at the ring for a moment longer, her face becoming more and more pale, before she suddenly jumped up from her seat and raced out the doorway. John and Mary shared a confused look before jumping up and rushing after her.

"Wait here," John told Greg as Mary gently passed their daughter to the inspector.

The Watsons burst through the door and hurried down the hall, watching Molly disappear into the women's locker room. John eased back as Mary went in first, waving him in when she spotted only Molly inside. John stepped into the locker room, staring with Mary at Molly. Molly was crouched over a nearby trash bin, vomiting into it.

Mary stepped forward, reaching towards her as she finished. John had gone over to the sink and filled a plastic cup, coming back over to the two women and handing it to Molly. Molly accepted the water, taking a sip and spitting it into the bin. As she began taking regular sips, John and Mary exchanged worried glances.

"Molly…are you all right?" asked Mary quietly.

Molly slowly nodded, staring into the cup of water.

"Are you sure you don't—" began John.

Molly shook her head. "No, no. I'm…I'm fine. I don't need any doctors. I've already…" Her words trailed off.

John frowned. "You've already been to one? For what? Molly, what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Molly told them, wiping at her still red eyes. She gave a bitter laugh. "Well, that's not really true, is it? Everything's wrong. This is all wrong…"

"Molly…" said Mary gently.

Molly took a deep breath, taking another sip of water. "I never thought I would get a happily ever after with Sherlock. At least, not like I dreamed of when I was a little girl. And I was okay with that. As long as I had Sherlock, I didn't care. He was…" tears filled her eyes again, "he was my happily ever after. But then…he was going to propose?" She sniffled. "Maybe he _would_ have been okay with it…"

"With what?" asked John, very confused by the whole thing.

"I was going to tell him tonight," Molly told them. "I was so nervous about it, that he wouldn't want it, but just maybe…"

"Molly…" Mary repeated.

Molly nodded to herself, looking up at them and taking a breath. "I'm pregnant."

* * *

 **Ooh! Bet you didn't see that coming!**


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Mary's eyes widened at the statement. "You're pregnant?"

Molly nodded briefly.

"Wait a minute, you said you were going to tell Sherlock tonight," said Mary. "So, he didn't know?"

"No," said Molly, tears starting to form in her eyes again. "He didn't."

"And you're sure Sherlock didn't know?" asked John. "I mean, he knew Mary was pregnant before she did."

Molly shook her head. "No, I'm one of those cases that doesn't really have any symptoms. I just kind of got this…feeling that something was different, you know? I'm pretty sure he didn't know." She sniffed as she wiped at her eyes. "And now, he never will."

Mary knelt down next to Molly, pulling her into her arms. Molly clung to Mary as she cried, and John placed a hand on her arm. The three friends sat together for a few minutes as Molly calmed down. She finally pulled away from Mary and climbed to her feet.

"You going to be okay?" asked John as he and Mary also got to their feet.

Molly nodded. "I think, erm…I think I'm just going to take a walk for a minute."

Mary nodded. "Sure. We'll see you later, okay?"

Molly nodded again, turning and leaving the locker room. Mary glanced at John before the two of them also left.

John looked down the hall to see Molly disappearing around the corner. John turned and followed his wife back towards the morgue waiting room. Greg and Mycroft were still standing where they had left them, glancing up as they walked into the room. Mary walked over to Greg, taking Emma back from him and heading to a seat to hold her.

John glanced at the doors to the morgue, knowing that his dead best friend lay beyond them.

 _I never even got to say goodbye…_

* * *

Edward grabbed hold of his tray of utensils, rolling them over towards the examination table.

 _I really am going to die, aren't I?_

It made a sick sort of sense. First, there was the denial of what everyone around him was assuming. Then, there was the anger at all the idiots around him, Edward especially.

 _The five stages of grief. I suppose bargaining is next._

But who was there to bargain with? The only person in the room was about to cut a neat little Y-incision into his chest and play Operation. Perhaps it was time for drastic measures.

 _Please…If you just get me out of this, I promise to give Molly the life she deserves, the life she's always wanted._

Edward picked up the scalpel and began approaching the table. Sherlock watched the approach of the scalpel as much as he could with eyes that couldn't focus.

 _I knew it wouldn't work._

Edward stepped up to the table, placing his hand on Sherlock's chest.

 _Molly…_

The scalpel lowered towards Sherlock, the blade pressing into his skin.

And that's when hope came to the rescue.

The morgue doors suddenly burst open, and the scalpel was raised again. Sherlock would never be able to explain the feeling that swept through him in that moment. It was as though death had had him wrapped in its cloak, and it had just been ripped away. Sherlock could have kissed whoever had just come through that door. At least they had bought him another few minutes.

"Sorry."

 _John! John, get your arse over here and get me out of this!_

"I, er…I was wondering if I could, er…" said John softly.

"Sure," said Edward. "I'll just give you a minute."

 _I can't believe it actually worked._

Edward placed the scalpel back on his utensil tray and moved towards the doors, leaving the two friends alone. Sherlock tried to move his eyes over to his friend, but they just wouldn't budge.

 _Stupid eyes._

Even out of the corner of his eye, he could tell that John was frozen at the closed doors of the morgue. After a long moment, there were footsteps before John's face came into view above him. His eyes were red and raw from crying. John was staring at Sherlock's torso, seemingly refusing to look him in the eye.

 _Oh, for God's sake…John, look at me!_

John cleared his throat, his left hand twitching at his side. "You, erm…God…" He leaned forward, his hands on the edge of the table and his head hanging.

 _This won't work if you don't look at me, John!_

"Sherlock…" John began, his head raising but still looking down at the table. "You say that you're not a hero, but…I have never met anyone who fights harder for people…even if you claim you care nothing about them." He laughed a little.

 _Oh, quit reminiscing and help me!_

John hissed in a sharp breath. "I shouldn't have left. I knew you were going out to follow a lead. I should've gone with you. I could've stopped them from—" He broke off, his head falling once again.

 _Quit blaming yourself, John. You know very well I would have gone off after them either way._

John raised his head again, his eyes glancing up at the ceiling to stop the tears before they came. He looked back down at Sherlock's torso. "I just…I'm sorry."

 _John, look at me. Look at my eyes. The pupils, John. Look at the pupils!_

"I should've…" John trailed off as he shook his head.

 _Would you just look at me, John?!_

John took in a deep breath before his eyes **finally** moved up to Sherlock's face. He stared at him for a moment, seemingly giving a silent goodbye, before his gaze froze.

 _That's it. You see it, don't you?_

John's eyes narrowed as he leaned closer towards Sherlock's face. His hand suddenly grasped hold of Sherlock's face, his fingers prying Sherlock's eyes open further.

 _You can do it, John. Come on, already._

John's hand left Sherlock's face and hesitantly moved down to Sherlock's throat, his fingers pressing onto his carotid artery. Sherlock waited through two slow heartbeats before John's fingers practically shoved themselves into Sherlock's throat and his jaw dropped.

 _Oh, God bless you, John Watson._

"Oh, my God…" breathed John, rushing away from Sherlock's side and to the phone on the wall. "I need a crash cart in the morgue STAT!"

 _Oh, no, no, no, John. That won't work. Remember!_

"Wait, and, er…there was something else," said John. "Er…I need a vial of neostigmine and a vial of, er…atropine."

 _Good job, John._

There was a clang as John hung up the phone and hurried back to Sherlock's side.

"My God, Sherlock…" said John, staring into his eyes. "You're awake, aren't you?"

 _About time!_

"How did he not see that you were alive?" said John, anger beginning to show a little through the worry.

 _That's what I said! Oh, when I get out of here, I am_ _ **so**_ _getting him fired!_

The next moment, the morgue doors sprang open, and two nurses rushed in, wheeling a crash cart with them. John turned as they came in, Edward right behind them.

"I need two syringes," said John quickly, flipping straight into doctor mode, "and the vials. It was…What was it? What was it?"

Edward burst through the doors, followed closely by Greg, Mary and Mycroft.

"What's going on in here?" said Edward.

"John?" asked Mary.

"Charge the paddles, just in case," John told the nurses. "He said it was…oh, how many was it?" He closed his eyes to think.

 _Hmm, I think I'm rubbing off on you, John._

"What do you think you're doing?" asked Edward.

"Saving Sherlock's life," John told him. "Now, shut up."

"What are you talking about, John?" asked Greg.

"He's not dead," said John. "He's been poisoned."

"Poisoned?" asked Mycroft, stepping closer and gazing down at Sherlock. His eyes instantly widened as he recognized that Sherlock was, indeed, not dead.

"The same paralytic that's been used on the other victims," said John quickly. "Now, be quiet."

"I think I would know a dead body when I saw one," said Edward, stepping over to the other side of the table across from John.

 _You would think!_

"You're lucky you didn't kill him," John growled out. "Now, shut it!"

 _Score one for John._

John's brows furrowed as Edward glared at him. Suddenly, John's eyes flew open, and he looked at the two nurses. "Two milligrams neostigmine, three milligrams atropine!"

 _That's it, John! Knew you'd get there._

The nurses went to work as Edward leaned towards John.

"He is dead," said Edward. "I checked. The examiner at the scene checked. What are the chances of us both being wrong?"

"Considering the examiner at the scene was a police officer and not a trained medical professional, yes," John bit back. "What's your excuse?"

 _Score two for John. Lay into him!_

The nurse brought over the two syringes, and John immediately grabbed them, turning Sherlock's arm over and injecting first one and then two needles into his arm.

"He was killed, John," said Edward. "The blow to the head killed him."

 _Oh, God, kill me now. No, wait, I didn't mean that…_

"What blow to the head?" asked Greg.

"His fixed and constricted pupils indicate head trauma," said Edward, like he was speaking to an idiot. "That's obviously what killed him."

John frowned over at the pathologist in disbelief. "If he was really dead, his pupils would be fixed and **dilated**. Constricted means he's still alive."

"Oh, and I suppose he never had cirrhosis, either," said Edward sarcastically.

Sherlock could've laughed at the look on everyone else's faces.

"No, he didn't," said John. "Just where are you pulling that one from?"

 _Is John channeling me or something?_

While everyone was preoccupied with the verbal sparring match between the two doctors (well, one doctor, one fraud), Sherlock could feel his fingers and toes beginning to tingle. His heart was starting to speed up a bit, and—at long last—he was able to manage a minute blink.

"The blood tests," said Edward.

"What blood tests?" asked Mary.

Edward held up Sherlock's arm, showing them the track marks. "These. Really, did you people not know him?"

The tingle was now running up his arms and legs and into his abdomen.

"Those are syringe scars from his drug days," John gritted out, grabbing Sherlock's arm from him and setting it gently back down again. "What kind of doctor are you?"

Sherlock's fingers and toes began to twitch as his eyes slowly moved over towards Edward.

"Look, any idiot can take a pulse," said Edward, placing his hand on Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock glared at the man as he felt his anger pooling in his gut. His right arm began to shake a little.

"I'm sorry to break it to you, but he's dead," said Edward. "Now, can we please drop this nonsense so I can get back to my autopsy?"

Sherlock mustered all of his returning strength into his right arm, and he suddenly reached up and grabbed hold of Edward's arm, pulling it off of his chest. Edward's eyes widened as he looked down at Sherlock, who was glaring at him.

"No…bloody…chance, you idiot," Sherlock growled out past his recently un-paralyzed vocal cords.

* * *

 **Ooh, Edward's gonna get it.**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

 **Sorry it's been a little while. I just started putting together a model Titanic ship. Lots of work.**

* * *

Edward wrenched his hand out of Sherlock's grip, which wasn't very hard to do as his brief wave of adrenaline was wearing off fast. Sherlock's hand fell back to the metal table with a clatter.

"Sherlock!" exclaimed John, leaning forward as Sherlock's eyes fell closed. "Hey, stay with me."

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock breathed out, the exhaust sweeping through him. "Although, I almost wasn't." He opened his eyes to look up at his friend. "Your timing is perfect, as always. He was just about to cut me open."

John chuckled a little as he placed a hand on Sherlock's wrist, taking his pulse. "How do you feel? And don't placate me. You were just completely paralyzed. You can be all gallant later."

"John—" Sherlock groaned as he rolled his eyes.

"Sherlock, you are getting a hospital room, and I don't want to hear one word about it," John told him sternly, giving him the glare he usually reserved for the Yarders that badmouthed Sherlock.

Sherlock stared up at the resolved stare of the army doctor before relenting with a half-shrug. "If you insist."

John nodded once. "Good. Now…" his glare moved up to Edward, who stood staring at Sherlock in slack-jawed shock, "I want to know how this happened."

Edward stared at them all with wide eyes, his mouth working silently before he was finally able to get a sound out. "I-I-I don't know—I took his pulse! He-he was dead!"

Sherlock placed his hands on the table, starting to push himself up to a sitting position. Not quite able to do it himself just yet, John quickly braced Sherlock's shoulders and helped him to sit up. Sherlock was glaring at Edward the whole time, practically growling at him.

"Obviously not, or John wouldn't have had to call for help," Sherlock grumbled. He was finally sitting up, and he took a second to breathe, "you moron. Any doctor—any _nurse_ —gets trained within their first semester how to take a pulse. Which begs the question: where were _you_ trained?"

John watched with interest as Mycroft's brow rose, and he then turned to look at the wall, where some framed documents were hung.

"Nowhere," said Sherlock. "If you don't even know how to take a pulse, you're either incredibly brain dead, or…"

"He's not a doctor…" muttered John, eyes moving to Edward's medical degrees hung on the wall.

"His B.M.B.S. from Nottingham is signed by Sir Gordon Hobday," explained Sherlock. "He stepped down as Chancellor of the University in 1993."

Greg narrowed his eyes at Edward. "You faked your medical degree? Did you really think that you wouldn't get caught?"

"I perform autopsies!" said Edward. "All I do is tell you all how people died! You can't really do any harm there!"

"I think we've just proven what harm you can do there!" said Mary with an indignant wave at Sherlock.

"A-a one-time incident!" said Edward.

"And what about all those innocent people that were put away because of the autopsy evidence you provided?" said Greg. "Or all the killers out there walking free because of you?"

"How they died doesn't factor into **who** killed them," Edward defended himself. "What matters is that you caught them."

"I don't think so," said Greg, stalking around the table and approaching Edward. He quickly grabbed his arm and pulled it behind his back, taking out a pair of handcuffs. "Edward Shapely, I'm placing you under arrest for possession of fraudulent medical degrees." He cuffed Edward's hands behind his back and began marching him out of the morgue. "You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

The door closed behind them, and Sherlock's arms finally gave out.

"Whoa!" exclaimed John, catching Sherlock before he hit the table. "I think it's time we got you to a bed."

"Excellent idea, John," said Sherlock, glancing down at where the white sheet had pooled at his waist. "But if someone could get me something to wear? I've just become all too aware of the fact that I'm naked."

Mary hurried to grab something for him to wear.

John smirked. "Never bothered you before."

"This is quite different to the comfort of my own home, John," Sherlock told him like he was stupid.

Mary came back with a pair of scrubs from the adjoining office. "Here." She laid them down on the edge of the table.

Sherlock nodded thankfully at her. "I'm, um…not exactly able to hold myself up yet—"

"Right," said John, glancing at Mycroft. "Could you—"

"Of course," said Mycroft, placing his umbrella against the cabinets as Mary headed into the office to give the boys some privacy.

John helped keep Sherlock upright as he eased the shirt on himself. John then helped Sherlock shift his legs over the side of the table, sliding the pants onto his legs before easing him off and onto the floor.

Sherlock glanced around as he situated himself, John and Mycroft holding him up on his feet. "Wait, where's Molly?"

John's eyes widened. "Oh, my God! Molly!"

The door of the morgue eased open, and a small, timid voice issued from it.

"John?" Molly cautiously poked her head inside. "Are you—"

Her voice broke off as she spotted Sherlock, a standing, staring, breathing, _living_ Sherlock. She dropped the tea that she held in her hand, gasping as she stared at him.

"Molly…" said Sherlock in a quiet, relieved voice.

"Sherlock…" gasped Molly, unable to move from her spot at the door.

Sherlock held up a hand towards her. "I know this is a shock to take in, but I assure you—"

Molly had suddenly launched herself across the room and into Sherlock's arms, and Sherlock wrapped his arms around her. Her hands gripped onto him so hard, Sherlock thought he might have bruises later.

Molly pushed her face into Sherlock's chest, taking a deep breath of his scent. "Oh, my God. You're here. You're really here. How—"

"The paralytic found in the last three victims," said Sherlock. "Coupled with Edward's medical fraud, I was assumed dead."

Molly huffed out a breath. "I always knew there was something off about him."

Sherlock chuckled, running a hand over her hair. "If only I had been around the morgue when he was working sooner. This whole thing could have been avoided."

"I should have said something to Mike," said Molly. "I suspected something wasn't quite right. If I had told him, you wouldn't have—"

"It's not your fault, Molly," Sherlock told her, pulling away to look down into her tear-stained eyes. "It's okay." He winced as his hands began to fall. "But I think my strength is failing again."

John darted forward to help Molly catch Sherlock, and they helped him back onto the table. Sherlock sat on the edge of it, taking a moment to catch his breath.

John then walked over to the phone, picking it up. "Yes, I need to admit someone for observation…"

"You okay?" asked Molly as John continued to talk to the admitting staff.

Sherlock nodded. "My muscles are still recovering from the antidote I improvised."

" _You_ improvised?" asked Molly with a frown. "I thought you were paralyzed."

"I was," said Sherlock, nodding over at John. "Thankfully, John remembered my comments about a possible antidote this morning when I was reviewing the victims' blood work."

Molly smiled. "Well, thank God for that."

Sherlock gave a smile as he watched John. "Yes, thank God."

Molly gave a small frown before Sherlock moved his gaze over to her.

Sherlock gave her a loving smile. "I think I was never going to see you again."

Molly reached forward, placing her hand on his cheek. "I'm right here."

Sherlock smiled as he leaned forward and gave her a kiss. Suddenly, he pulled back and stared down at her hand, grabbing it and lifting it to inspect the engagement ring she was wearing. He looked back up at her with wide eyes, narrowing them in question.

Molly smiled as she nodded. "Yes…Yes, Sherlock, I will."

Sherlock smiled as he pulled her into a kiss, Molly laughing into it.

"Oh, looks like congratulations are in order," came John's voice.

Sherlock broke away from Molly, smiling at her. "Indeed."

"Never thought this day would come," said John, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder. "Either way, you're going to make a great father."

Sherlock's face froze as the smile slowly dropped, and his eyes slowly tracked over to John, who was smiling proudly at him.

Sherlock frowned at John in confusion. "Father?"

John's smile faltered as his widening eyes moved over to Molly. "You…haven't told him?"

Sherlock moved his narrowed eyes over to Molly, who was looking at him with a sheepish smile.

"Well, now, this is awkward," muttered John.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

 **Oh, yes! I finally got back to my story!**

* * *

Sherlock stared at John for a moment before moving his confused gaze over to Molly, who was smiling sheepishly at him. "You're…"

Molly nodded. "I am."

Sherlock's frown deepened as his eyes became slightly unfocused, his mind no doubt searching through the last few weeks for any clue as to Molly's condition. "But you haven't—"

Molly quickly shook her head to reassure him that he had not missed anything. "No, I haven't."

They could instantly spot the moment when it clicked for him, for his brows unfurrowed, and he raised his head slightly to respond.

"Ah, you're one of those women," said Sherlock.

Molly gave a shrug. "Apparently."

Sherlock's confident gaze abruptly froze as the implications of their conversation hit him. "You're pregnant…"

John gave a small chuckle. "Finally sink in, did it?"

Molly gave her fiancé a small smile. "I am. We're having a baby."

John watched as Sherlock just stared at her, Molly waiting with bated breath and bitten lip. John seemed to be holding his breath with her, both of them unsure as to what Sherlock's reaction would be. John would like to believe his friend had grown as a person the last few years, but truth be told, he'd never thought Sherlock had been particularly fond of children. Then again, Sherlock had just proposed to her, so…

 _Please don't let him break her heart,_ John begged.

After another moment, a slow smile began to appear on Sherlock's face. The two doctors released their held breaths as the smile grew.

"That's wonderful!" chuckled Sherlock, reaching forward and pulling Molly into a hug.

Molly wrapped her arms around him, sharing in his laughter. That's when Mary made her reappearance.

"Oh!" she exclaimed as she walked into the morgue with Emma in her arms. "Did she tell him about the baby?"

"No, apparently, I did," John told her as he walked over to Mary and gaze his daughter a hug. "You get hold of Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yeah, she's delighted," Mary answered.

John glanced back at the celebrating couple. "He's catching up quick."

"Well, we'll just have to get to work on that, won't we?" said Mary suggestively.

"Would you two give it a rest?" Sherlock called out. "You're ruining one of the only sentimental moments I'm willing to allow."

John chuckled. "And once again, it's all about him." He walked back over to Sherlock and Molly. "Better get used to it, mate. You're going to have a lot more sentiment from now on."

The morgue doors opened, and a nurse came in with a wheelchair.

"Okay, Dr. Watson, the room is ready," said the nurse.

"Thanks," said John as he gestured for the wheelchair to be brought over.

"No."

John looked up at Sherlock. "No?"

"I am not getting in that," Sherlock told him, actually crossing his arms in defiance.

"Sherlock, you have to," John argued back.

"It's a _wheelchair_ , John," Sherlock sneered.

"It's hospital policy," said John. "Besides—"

"I refuse," said Sherlock as Molly rolled her eyes next to him.

"You can't walk, Sherlock!" John yelled.

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment before he rolled his eyes and began to take a step towards the wheelchair. As soon as he left the support of the examination table behind him, his legs gave out, and he tumbled to the floor.

John darted forward and helped pull him back up. "Don't wanna say 'I told you so,' but—"

"Yes, John, you're a genius," Sherlock grumbled as they helped him over to the chair.

"Being the only one smart enough to actually recognize that you were still alive, I'm gonna take that at face value," said John as Sherlock dropped into the seat.

The nurse proceeded to wheel the detective out of the morgue and towards the room waiting for him, Sherlock silently grumbling the whole way.

* * *

They had finally gotten Sherlock into his hospital bed and to stay there, probably only due to the fact that he was still too weak to walk out. But Molly had managed to placate him by agreeing to an ultrasound while they were there. And surprisingly, the staff had agreed to Sherlock's next demand: an ultrasound in his room.

"It only makes sense," Sherlock had argued. "I am the father, and I should be present for it despite the fact that I can't walk."

So, here they were, with Molly settled next to Sherlock on his hospital bed and the attending physician passing the wand over her stomach. Sherlock and Molly were staring at the screen, Sherlock with narrowed eyes. He had never studied a sonogram before, but surely it couldn't be very hard.

"All right, and there's your baby," said the doctor, a smile forming on her face as she held the wand in place.

Sherlock stared at the static-filled screen in front of him, searching for what he'd heard John once refer to as the "peanut-shaped blur." However, no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't see it.

"Oh, it's beautiful…" breathed Molly, her hand tightening in Sherlock's grasp.

Sherlock glanced over at her teary eyes, just slightly worried now. If Molly could see it, why couldn't he? Any parent should be able to pick out their child from that screen, and he was no ordinary parent.

The doctor pressed a button on the machine to freeze the image and print out a picture before placing the wand on the tray and turning to them. "I'll leave you two alone a moment." She then left the room.

Molly's gaze moved to Sherlock momentarily, smiling at him. "Isn't it amazing?" She looked back at the sonogram's screen, a tear falling down her face.

Sherlock only stared at the image, desperate to find his child.

Molly looked back at him, frowning at his lack of response. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock huffed out a frustrated sigh, muttering under his breath.

"What?" asked Molly.

"I can't find it," Sherlock muttered miserably.

Molly began to smile a little at him.

Sherlock frowned at her in hurt. "This is hardly a laughing matter, Molly."

"No, I'm not laughing," Molly responded, placing a hand on his face to reassure him. "You're just…incredibly adorable."

"Am not," Sherlock grumbled, but with slightly less of a frown.

"You are to," said Molly, leaning forward and grabbing the monitor to wheel it closer. She pulled on his hand to get him to lean closer with her. She used her other hand to point at the screen. "You see all this around here? That's the womb. And that right there in the middle…that's our baby."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he stared at the miniscule blip in the middle of a small black area surrounded by more gray static. "That's it?"

"Yes, Sherlock, that's it," said Molly, huffing out a laugh as she tugged him closer.

Sherlock's stunned eyes stared at the proof of their child in front of him. "It's so…small. I mean…I know it's small; it's only five weeks old, but…" He trailed off, unable to find the words to explain what he was feeling.

"Hmm, I think we finally found the one thing that renders you speechless," said Molly.

Sherlock finally broke out of it as he glanced suggestively over at her.

"Well, okay, maybe not **one** thing," said Molly, blushing beautifully.

Sherlock chuckled before his gaze moved back to the monitor, his smile slowly turning from amused to amazed.

 _Our child…_

Sherlock looked at Molly, smiling as he wrapped an arm around her and gave her a kiss. The two of them went back to staring at the sonogram, holding each other close.

* * *

"Oh, wow, it's true," said Greg as he looked down at the sonogram picture. "Holmes Junior."

"Technically, Hooper-Holmes Junior," Sherlock told him from his spot in the hospital bed.

"No, Holmes," Molly replied, sitting next to the bed and holding Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock looked over at her.

"It's a Holmes," Molly told him.

Sherlock smiled and squeezed her hand before looking back at the others in the room.

Greg passed the picture back over to John, who gave it to Molly. "So, when's the wedding?"

"How about mid-October?" suggested Sherlock.

Everyone turned to stare at him.

"Sherlock, that's only a month and a half from now," said John.

"I thought Molly would want to get married without having to worry about buying a maternity gown," Sherlock answered.

Molly smiled and gave him a peck on the cheek. "That's so thoughtful. October is perfect."

Mary opened the door and stepped inside. "Ooh, sorry! She insisted on an ice cream. I didn't have the heart to tell her no."

"Still not feeling well?" asked Molly.

"No," said Mary. "Thankfully, it's not bad." She spotted the picture in Molly's hand. "Ooh! Baby pictures!"

As the two girls ogled over the ultrasound picture, Greg and John stepped over to the other side of Sherlock's bed.

"You know the guy that did this?" asked Greg.

"No," said Sherlock. "I saw him, but stuck in this dreadful place—"

"It's a hospital, Sherlock, not a death camp," Molly spoke up from the other side of the bed.

"—I can't track him down," Sherlock finished. "Who knows what other poor victims he might poison out there."

John stared at Sherlock at his use of the term "poor" in reference to the victims. Hadn't the man just this morning told John not to sympathize with the victims? He supposed it was hard **not** to do so now that he had almost shared the same fate.

"Well…" said John, suddenly getting an idea as he glanced at Greg, "if it's okay with you…" he looked back at Sherlock, "I may have a way of drawing him out."

* * *

He rounded the corner of the hospital, looking towards the nurse's station. It was so early in the morning that only one nurse was at the desk at the moment. He only needed to wait for her to get distracted, and he had the perfect solution for that. He **had** to get to that room.

He had been watching the news, waiting for the report that told of the detective's unexpected murder. Instead, he had been met with a story stating that Sherlock Holmes was in the hospital on his way to recovery.

 _ **How**_ _had he survived?_

It was impossible. He had designed that poison to paralyze and kill. _No one_ should have been able to tell he was still alive, and _no one_ should have been able to figure out the antidote for it. The only person that could possibly have done that was Sherlock himself, and he had been slightly incapacitated at the moment.

 _Sherlock Holmes has to die._

Any moment, he could wake up and describe him to the police. Something had to be done.

He grabbed hold of a cart of hospital supplies next to him and gave it a good shove, slipping into a janitor's closet as the cart crashed into something down the hall. There were then hurried footsteps, and he peered out to see the nurse rushing to investigate. He slipped back out of the closet and around the corner towards the desk, grabbing the logbook on top of it and searching it.

 _Sherlock Holmes, room 423._

He put the logbook back and rushed down the hall towards the correct room. When he reached it, he pulled the door open and peered inside to see that the detective was asleep in the hospital bed, lying on his side and facing the door. He closed the door behind him and reached into his pocket, pulling out another syringe of the paralytic. He slowly approached the bed, trying not to make any noise.

He reached the head of the bed, gazing down on the man to make sure he was still sleeping. His eyes were closed, his breathing was slow and even and the heart monitor was holding at a steady 67 beats per minute. He raised the syringe, lowering it down towards the detective's arm.

Sherlock's arm shot up and caught his arm, stopping the downward motion of the syringe. He opened his eyes and looked up at him. "You've got to be a dumbest criminal in history."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

 **Finally, the end! I have been waiting to move onto my next story for weeks now!**

* * *

The guy stared down at Sherlock with wide eyes.

"A story's put out that the man you intended to kill—a famous detective, nonetheless—is alive and well, and your first instinct is to go rushing to his bedside to finish the job?" said Sherlock in disbelief. "You don't think for one second that it might be a trap?"

The guy finally wrestled his arm out of Sherlock's admittedly still weak grip, raising the syringe above him once again.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said Sherlock, readying himself to catch the syringe when the guy's shock ultimately broke. "You're already looking at three counts of first degree murder and one account of attempted murder. Do you really want to make it worse for yourself?"

The guy gave a cry of rage and plunged the syringe towards him. Sherlock caught the guy's wrist, using every last ounce of strength he had to hold it off. He only had to bide time for the others to get there. Unfortunately, the criminal's rage was adding to his adrenaline and leverage from above. Sherlock, on the other hand, was working against gravity and his lingering paralysis effects.

"Guys," Sherlock gritted out, jaw clenched in exertion. "Any time now."

The guy raised his other hand, probably to hit Sherlock and weaken him, just as the door of the room burst open. Someone's hand grabbed hold of the hand holding the syringe and yanked it upwards out of Sherlock's grasp. Sherlock exhaled as his tired arms dropped to the mattress, and he finally moved his head so he could see that John had wrestled the man to the floor, pinning his arms behind his back.

Lestrade was on the other side, helping to hold the guy down with his knees as he pulled out a pair of handcuffs. "I'm placing you under arrest for the murders of Veronica Downing, Patricia Rowen and Jennifer Trickan." He slapped the handcuffs on and pulled the guy to his feet as John eased back.

John stepped over as Lestrade walked the man out of the room. "You okay?"

Sherlock nodded. "I'll live."

Molly rushed into the room. "Sherlock!" She rushed over to the other side of the bed, placing a hand on the side of his face. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine," said Sherlock. "Bit tired, but…"

Molly smiled, looking up at John. "Thank you."

"Yes, John, thank you," said Sherlock, looking over at his friend.

John shrugged a little. "It was no big deal. All I did was pull the guy off."

"That wasn't what I was talking about," said Sherlock. "If you hadn't seen that I was still alive…I don't want to think about what would have happened."

John stared at him, remembering just how close Edward had been to performing that autopsy as he had walked in. "Me either."

"Thank God you were there," muttered Sherlock.

John frowned. "I thought you didn't believe in a higher power."

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, you'd be amazed at what a person can go through in order to…shift their perception."

John just smiled at him and looked up at Molly. "Well, I'd better leave you to it, then." He looked at Sherlock. "Get some rest. Mary and I will be back in the morning."

"Thanks, John," said Molly.

John turned and left the room as Molly pulled a chair up to the side of Sherlock's bed.

"He's right, you know," said Molly. "You need rest."

Sherlock scoffed. "Rest is boring."

"Sherlock…" Molly scolded sternly.

Sherlock paused for a moment. "At least pull out the bed. I don't want you sleeping in that chair."

Molly smiled. "Fair enough." She stood and moved over to the small sofa against the wall, pulling out the bed built into it.

* * *

Molly opened her eyes, looking up into the darkened room and wondering what he awoken her. Then she heard it again: a sharp intake of breath. Molly sat up and glanced over at the hospital bed.

Sherlock was still laying in it, but he had rolled over to face her at some point. His face was screwed up in distress, and his hand was fisted in the thin sheet that covered him. He suddenly jerked in his sleep, gasping and letting out a grunt. Molly quickly got up from the small mattress and stepped over to the bed.

Sherlock jerked again, tossing his head back. "No…"

Molly stepped closer, reaching her hand forward.

Sherlock gasped, practically hyperventilating. "Stop…"

Molly placed a hand on his forehead, leaning closer and speaking in a soothing whisper. "It's okay. You're safe now. It's over."

Sherlock's brow bunched together underneath her hand. "Molly…"

"I'm here," Molly told him. "It's all over."

Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath as he turned his head further into the pillow.

"Come back to me," Molly whispered, taking hold of the hand fisted in the sheet.

Sherlock took several more shaky breaths as his face began to relax and his fist released the sheet. Molly continued to hold his hand and stroke his sweaty hair out of his face. Sherlock's hand had moved slowly from the sheet so that it was now holding her own loosely. After a minute or so, Sherlock's eyes finally drifted open.

Molly smiled down at him. "Hey…"

Sherlock smiled up at her sleepily. "Thank you. You always know how to calm me down."

Molly continued her caressing of his forehead. "You okay now?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I'm fine." He took a deep breath and exhaled it in one go. "Give me a few days, and I'll be right as rain."

Molly frowned in sympathy before straightening up. "Scoot over."

Sherlock frowned back at her. "What?"

"Scoot," Molly told him, pulling the blanket and sheet back.

Sherlock moved a little more over to the side of the hospital bed, and Molly climbed up onto the mattress, settling in next to him. Sherlock smiled at her before wrapping his arm around her, pulling her close. It was a tight fit, but they didn't really mind.

* * *

John walked next to Mary as he held Emma in his arms. Their daughter was babbling away in her own little language, her parents only able to distinguish a word or two every so often. When they reached Sherlock's room, Mary eased the door open and led them through.

Molly was sitting on the hospital bed next to a sleeping Sherlock, a book in her lap and her other hand on Sherlock's head, moving every so often over his hair. She looked up and smiled at them.

"John, Mary, hi," Molly whispered, glancing down at Sherlock to make sure he was still sleeping. She closed her book and eased off of the bed.

"Hey, Molly," Mary whispered, looking over at the sleeping detective. "How's he doing?"

"He's been sleeping for nine hours," Molly told them.

"Nine hours?" said John quietly in amazement. "I had trouble getting him to sleep four."

"Yeah, well…" said Molly, looking sadly back at him, "they weren't really restful." She looked back at them. "He's been having nightmares every couple hours."

"Nightmares?" asked John in disbelief. "I don't think he's ever had a nightmare, ever."

"I think he's reliving the whole thing," said Molly, looking down at the floor. "I can only imagine what that was like. Lying there in the morgue, unable to move, unable to tell anyone he was still alive, watching as Edward began approaching with a scalpel—"

The heart monitor behind her began screeching, and they all turned to Sherlock in alarm to see him frowning in his sleep, breathing hard and clenching his fists.

Molly immediately hurried over to the bed, placing her hands on his head and his hand. "Oh, sorry, Sherlock." She looked up at John and Mary. "His subconscious is a bloody sponge." She looked back down at Sherlock, rubbing his hand as she soothed him.

Sherlock quickly calmed back down and relaxed into the bed. Molly squeezed his hand one last time before moving back over to the other side of the room.

"Wow," whispered John. "Don't usually see him like that." He shook his head. "Scratch that. I've **never** seen him like that."

"Well, he did almost die," shrugged Molly.

"He's almost died loads of times," said Mary. "Guess this time was different."

"So, how's Sherlock's family handling it?" asked Molly.

John chuckled quietly. "His mother's about ready to have a heart attack, if you ask me."

"I blame Mycroft."

They turned to see Sherlock adjusting the head of the bed so he could sit up.

"I gave him strict instructions not to ever contact our parents until he had observed my dead body for himself," said Sherlock. "Bloody git."

John smiled as they moved closer to the bed. "Well, can you blame him? You were in the morgue, refuted to be dead by at least three people. What more do you want from him?"

"A _fourth_ witness," Sherlock bit back.

John chuckled, shaking his head. "Nothing's ever good enough for Sherlock Holmes, is it?"

"Now, there, you are wrong," said Sherlock, looking over at Molly and holding his hand out for her.

Molly smiled and stepped closer, lacing her fingers through his.

"My two girls are more than good enough," said Sherlock, placing a kiss to the back of Molly's hand.

"You think it's going to be a girl?" asked Molly.

Sherlock shrugged. "Balance of probability."

"Sherlock, even you can't deduce the sex of the baby this early on," John told him.

"Can to," argued Sherlock.

"I'm gonna laugh if it's a boy," said Mary.

"It won't be," said Sherlock simply.

"Anyway…" interrupted John, "I'm just glad this is all over."

"Yeah, it's been like something out of a mystery adventure novel," said Molly with a small laugh.

"Then it should be right at home in John's blog," said Sherlock, looking over at his friend.

John smiled as the girls laughed a little before he waved his hand. "Okay, all kidding aside, it's a miracle you made it out of this, mate."

Sherlock gave another shrug. "I've tried telling you before, John."

John frowned as Mary and Molly looked over at Sherlock.

"I'm known to be indestructible," said Sherlock, smirking up at John.

John shook his head, remembering that day sometime after Sherlock's return from the dead when John had asked how Sherlock had faked his death. "I wouldn't fall back on that every time. Someone just might challenge you on that."

"That's what I have you for," said Sherlock.

"Lock!"

Sherlock looked down at Emma, who sat in John's arms. "Well, look who learned a new word."

"Lock!" exclaimed Emma again, a big smile on her face as she held her arms out for Sherlock.

"Looks like she wants her godfather," said John, stepping forward and setting Emma down on the bed next to Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled a little and placed an arm around Emma to keep her from falling off the bed. Emma crawled towards Sherlock's head, poking at his face and pulling at his hair.

"Better get used to that, mate," John told him as he made a face. "Pretty soon, you'll have a little monster of your own."

"John, do not refer to any child of mine as a 'monster,'" said Sherlock in mock disdain. "My daughter will be a genius."

"Or son," Molly reminded him.

"Time will tell," said Sherlock, smiling over at Molly as Emma slapped lightly at his chest.

The four friends began talking about the latest email Sherlock had received about a case, John and Sherlock debating about whether to take it or not. In the end, it was agreed—through a lot of nudging on Molly's part—that Sherlock would not actively participate in the case until he could walk without falling on his face.

All-round, a regular day in London.

* * *

 **The end!**


End file.
